


Remembrance of Things Past

by TotallyJeannius



Series: Tangled up in knots someone else tied [3]
Category: Resurrection (US TV)
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Cancer, Canon Compliant, F/M, Family Dynamics, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Memories, Mild Sexual Content, Pre-Series, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-22 10:43:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3725794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TotallyJeannius/pseuds/TotallyJeannius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After receiving some bad news and unable to fall back asleep, Margaret stays up all night and reflects upon her thirty-six years as a member of the Langston family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Remembrance of Things Past

> They say the past is etched in stone, but it isn't. It's smoke trapped in a closed room, swirling, changing. Buffeted by the passing of years and wishful thinking. But even though our perception of it changes, one thing remains constant. The past can never be completely erased. It lingers. Like the scent of burning wood.
> 
> —"In the Blood", _Daredevil_ (2015)

 

     She's standing on a train platform. It's early in the morning and the station is still quiet. The shops are beginning to open, and the wonderful aromas from the bakery and the florist begin to fill the air. She smiles as she breathes in the smell of freshly-baked baguettes and freshly-cut gardenias. Everything seems to be made more beautiful by the soft, hazy light. It's almost as if the glowing feeling of peacetime has been made tangible.

She watches as the first train pulls into the station and the platform fills with more and more people. The train comes to a stop and the steam from the locomotive floods the entire platform. Margaret stands perfectly still in her long, red dress and watches the people rush by all around her until a handsome, young man emerges from the cloud of steam. His eyes find hers through the crowd, and she feels her heartbeat quicken as she watches him walking towards her. He is tall and perfect in his captain's uniform, and when he smiles he is even more handsome.

Neither of them says anything. They simply come together, her arms around his neck and his hands on her waist as he picks her up and spins her around a few times. When he sets her down, she feels as if she's still floating on air. He runs his fingers through her hair before gently caressing her face, tracing his fingers lightly over her skin as if he's committing every detail to memory. She watches his face the entire time, watches the way his eyes look at her like he has never seen anything so beautiful.

"Meg," he whispers breathlessly as he leans in and kisses her. His arms wrap around her tightly and her fingers curl into his hair as she breathes him in. The long years of waiting and pining for him melt away as his lips press against hers and their tongues entwine.

She feels herself falling backwards, and his hand moves to pillow her head as he lays her back on the soft sands of a beach somewhere in California. As their kisses become more intense, it is not only the rays of the sun that are responsible for the warmth she feels all over her. She can feel the warm skin and hard planes of his body against every inch of her naked skin. His brown eyes are filled with desire as he looks deeply into her eyes, wordlessly seeking, almost begging her for permission to continue. It overwhelms her just how much she wants him, and when she caresses his cheek and nods, he lets her know how much he wants her too. Their fingers lace together and she never wants to let him go. Her pleasure continues to build as his lips explore her, and just when she thinks she cannot possibly feel anything more pleasurable, Ben presses a warm kiss to her cheek like he has so many times before. He brings his mouth to her ear, and she feels his breath as he whispers the words she longs to hear more than any others. The sound of his voice telling her "I love you, Meg" echoes all around her.

And then she wakes up.

* * *

     The house is quiet, so quiet that she can even hear the grandfather clock downstairs as it ticks away the seconds over the sound of her deep, ragged breaths.  She lies still, looking at the pale moonlight filtering through the bedroom window, as she debates whether to try to fall back asleep.

It's been years since she has dreamt that particular dream. In the early years of her marriage, Ben had occupied her every waking thought and thoughts of him had followed her into her sleep. On those nights, she would dream of passionate kisses and hearing Ben tell her he loved her as they made love on the beach. She would wake up breathless, filled with embarrassment to find that her hands had drifted beneath the sheets but also savoring every last second that every inch of her body hummed with pleasure. In a panic, she would look over to Warren's side of the bed and breathe a sigh of relief that he had once again fallen asleep in his armchair in the living room downstairs. Or if he was in bed, he was still sound asleep, snoring away in a whiskey-soaked stupor. She would lie there staring at the ceiling, knowing it would only be a matter of minutes before she would come down from the physical release the dream had temporarily provided. Inevitably, she would find herself blinking back tears as she was forced to accept that the dream—no matter how real it had felt—was nothing more than a dream. She was married to someone else and Ben hadn't returned from the war.

She shakes her head. There's no use in trying to fall back asleep. Perhaps some fresh air and a cup of tea would do her good, she thinks, as she changes out of her nightgown.

She makes her way down the stairs and into the kitchen, fills the kettle, and sets it on the stove. As she waits for the water to come to a boil, her eyes drift over to the stack of papers on the kitchen table. She'll have to go through them eventually, but she cannot bring herself to do so right now. Not when everything is still too raw. She still needs more time to process the news she received this afternoon.

The whistle of the tea kettle cuts through the silence, but the sound reminds Margaret of a train whistle and sends her mind back into her memories from this same date exactly thirty-six years ago. Less than a month after she and Warren were married, the war in Europe had come to an end. Three months later, Japan had surrendered and the war was truly over. The people of Arcadia had taken to the streets in celebration, but Margaret had sat by the river and wept that the joyous day had come too late. Ben would be back in Arcadia by mid-September, and nothing could change the fact that she was already married.

She remembers standing on the train platform with her in-laws that September. It had felt as though an entire lifetime had passed since fourteen-year-old Margaret Anderson had stood on that same platform, waving goodbye to the young man she had only begun to fall in love with and worried she might never see him again. She had clasped her hands tightly to keep them from shaking and a horrible burning sensation formed in her chest when her fingers brushed against the gold ring on her left hand. For nearly four years, she had been dreaming of the day when Ben would return from the war. But when the day had finally arrived, she had stood on the train platform, heartbroken in the knowledge that she would not be able to run up to him and jump into his arms as she had always imagined. She knew what she felt for Ben, but she didn't know if he loved her in return. She had written to him back in February, but he had never written back. How would he react to seeing her standing beside Warren? If he was upset, would it mean that Ben had feelings for her? Or would he be indifferent, meaning that he never did? Or would he arrive with a young woman on his arm and announce that another Langston wedding would soon be taking place?

After several minutes, the train had emptied but there had been no sign of Ben. Instead, an Army captain had made his way over to where the Langstons were standing, removed his cap, and Margaret could barely hear the officer informing them that Ben would not be returning over the deafening pounding of her heart. She had sat on the bench beside her mother-in-law and had been so relieved when she saw that the paper in Caroline's hand was not a telegram from the War Department, but rather a letter written in Ben’s own hand.

Her mother-in-law read Ben's letter silently before folding it and placing it in her purse. In a measured voice, she told them that Ben had never planned to return to Arcadia. He had switched trains in Chicago and had not said where he was going or how to get in contact with him. "I suppose we'll just have to wait and see if he ever writes to us again," Caroline had said, and those words had caused Margaret's heart to plummet.

There was supposed to be a family dinner at the Langston estate that evening, but the celebratory mood had been spoiled and everyone had driven their separate ways. On the car ride back to the house, Margaret had stared out the window, not knowing what to feel. Ever since Ben had enlisted, she had been plagued by terrible nightmares of him being gunned down and slowly bleeding out—cold, scared, alone, and far from home. For a brief moment, she almost wished that Ben had died. She immediately hated herself for thinking such a thing, for being weak and selfish, for clinging desperately to hopes that continued to exist only so long as Ben was still alive. She would have to find a way to endure. Perhaps his decision not to come back to Arcadia was a mercy. _What the eye does not see, the heart cannot grieve_ , she had told herself. It would have been too difficult to know he was so close by and yet so utterly out of reach. At least this way, she would not have to watch Ben fall in love with someone else, marry someone else, have children with someone else.

Years ago, he had told her that he didn't know if he would return to Arcadia after college. He was now twenty-two years old and would have graduated from the University of Chicago that spring. It seems even a world war could not change the things that were always going to happen. That afternoon, she had sat by the river and as the sun went down, she realized that Ben dying wasn't the worst thing that could happen. He had always had the freedom to make his own choices. And he had not chosen her.     

* * *

     She places her tea on the patio table and curls up in one of the wicker chairs. The night air is cool, and she can smell the lingering traces of this afternoon’s rain showers mixing with the night-blooming tuberoses she and Jacob had planted late this spring. As she pulls her cardigan tighter, the glint of her wedding ring catches her eye. She doesn't know why she still wears it. She can't begin to count the number of times she had wished she could dissolve her marriage by simply slipping the ring off her finger—just leave it on the dressing table as she walked out the door.

For Margaret, being married to Warren had been twenty-eight years of a thousand tiny heartbreaks. Whatever intangible thing was supposed to exist between man and wife never happened for them. It never changed, and it never grew. He never spoke to her unless it was absolutely necessary, never told her what he was thinking or what he expected. It was as if he simply expected her to be able to read his mind, and she'd had to endure his silences and his looks of disapproval when she got it wrong. None of the years of their marriage had been good, but the first one had been the hardest. She had married into Arcadia’s most prominent family, and at times it felt as if her every move was under scrutiny. She had to learn how to be Mrs. Warren Langston all on her own. It had been overwhelming, but it had also kept her hands and her mind busy. And in those early days, she welcomed anything that would distract her from thinking about all the things that were now lost to her.

She had been so relieved when Warren had drunk himself into oblivion on their wedding night. Months later, the marriage still had not been consummated, and an impatient Edward Langston had ordered Warren up to the Langston estate. She had lain in bed that evening, knowing what was to happen when Warren returned to the house, clearly intoxicated.

The first time had been painful, both physically and emotionally. She had stared at the wall the entire time, trying to force her mind to go blank. It was one of the worst moments of her life, and she didn’t want any thoughts of Ben anywhere near it. Warren had rolled off her immediately and left the room without saying a word. Once the door closed behind him, she let out the breath she had been holding, gathered the sheets, and made her way to the bathroom. She drew herself a bath and sat in the warm water, watching her teardrops mix with the bath water, until the physical pain eased. Only after she had put the sheets in the tub to soak overnight, changed into a new nightgown, and made up the bed with fresh linens did she allow herself to think about Ben. She was no longer a virgin, and it had not happened the way she had imagined. In her naïveté, she had thought her virginity was something to be given to the boy she loved and who loved her in return. That night, she had understood why virginity was spoken of as something to be lost. It felt like something had been taken from her. The last time she had felt this confused, this tarnished was after she had witnessed the disappearance of those two Returned men. She had hugged herself and imagined that it was Ben's arms that were holding her after their first time together. She had imagined his gentle voice asking her if she was all right and how he would have nuzzled her hair and whispered that he loved her as they both drifted off to sleep.   

Every time after that had been uncomfortable for her. Warren was not purposefully rough with her, but he never bothered with tenderness and he tended to his own needs quickly. There was a sort of detachment to everything Warren did, and it carried over to their marital relations. On the surface, Margaret had learned how to give off the appearance of a proud and self-assured woman. But inwardly, Warren's indifference towards her had wrecked her self-esteem. She had never had any illusions about her physical appearance. She knew she looked nothing like the buxom blonde women who turned men's heads, but she knew she was not ugly. But the way Warren refused to look at her face, especially during sex, only magnified the insecurities she had always felt. In the twenty-eight years they were married, he had never even seen her naked. They always had sex in complete darkness, removing only the pieces of clothing which were necessary, and Margaret would try not to think about what it meant that her husband needed to drink himself into a stupor before he would touch her.  

Warren wasn't a bad man, but he was not the man she wanted. He was not violent towards her or the boys, and if he had affairs, he at least had the decency to be discreet about them. Instead, the heartbreaks had happened every time he made it clear just how indifferent he was to everything. His indifference towards her still stings to this day. But it had been Warren's indifference towards the boys that had wounded her more than anything else. She couldn't forgive him for that, and it had been the thing that had completely turned her against him. The times she had really tried to give their marriage a chance, to open her heart and let Warren in, she had done so for the sake of her children. And each time, it had only resulted in deep disappointment.

The day Henry was born was one of the most painful experiences of her life. Margaret had been so relieved that the child was a boy, for she knew better than anyone just how little control girls had over their own lives. She also hoped it would mean never having to share her bed with Warren again. Sitting in the hospital bed with her newborn son in her arms, she realized just how alone she was. Looking around the maternity ward, she noticed that the other girls were the same age as her. But unlike her, the husbands of the other girls were present, and all of them were young men, recently returned from the war and eager to begin their new lives. Tearfully, she had watched the family in the bed next to hers. The new father had brought his wife a bouquet of flowers, and the look on his face as he sat on the bed, holding his young wife and their child in his arms, was devastatingly beautiful. Margaret could only smile sadly as she looked down at the beautiful baby boy sleeping in her arms. If everything had worked out as she had so desperately wished, Ben would have been sitting on the bed beside her and the little boy in her arms would have been Jacob Langston.

"I am so sorry, my dear boy," she apologized to her son in a trembling voice, placing a soft kiss on his cheek. "I'm so sorry that your father isn't the man I would have chosen for you."

Her father-in-law had been delighted with his grandson and declared that the boy would be named Henry. Margaret had looked at Warren, but when the small smile she gave him was met with his usual vacant stare, it was as if a part of her heart, a part that had once been warm and tender, had been replaced with something cold and harsh.

It had been so easy to imagine building a life with Ben, but for Henry's sake, she made an effort to build upon the gratitude she felt towards Warren. But Warren was indifferent to fatherhood. Becoming a father had no effect on him and he remained as lazy as ever, preferring to spend his evenings sitting in his armchair, listening to baseball games on the radio and downing glass after glass of whiskey. And as hard as Margaret tried to engage Warren in their son's life, he showed no interest in hearing about how Henry was progressing. Every night, she would sit in the rocking chair in the nursery and hum lullabies to Henry as she nursed him. She knew that when she looked up, Warren would not be standing in the doorway, looking at his wife and son like they were his greatest treasures. He would not kneel down to kiss Henry's head and then look into her eyes and smile. She had gone through the uncertainties of pregnancy and the pains of childbirth on her own. She had given him a beautiful son, and he could not even look at the two of them with even the smallest amount of affection.

Eight years later, she gave birth to another son. She had already done her duty by giving the Langstons an heir, and perhaps it was the delirium following the difficult birth that was to blame, but she had briefly believed that the birth of her second child was a sign that the marriage had grown. But when she woke the following day, feeling so weak and exhausted, Warren was nowhere to be found. Margaret held her newborn son that morning and could not hold back the tears when her son opened his eyes and looked at her for the first time. She spent the next three days confined to her hospital bed while her body recovered. It was during that time that she had developed a deep dislike of hospitals. She would not want to die in a place like this, where the seconds ticked away so slowly and the silence was unbearable. The endless sea of white sheets and white uniforms made her feel so isolated, made it so easy to look out the window and lose herself in melancholy thoughts as she drifted in and out of sleep.

Neither Warren nor his father, who never had any use for younger sons, ever came by to see the newest Langston. She felt immense gratitude towards her mother-in-law for picking Henry up after school and bringing him by every day, because she knew what a huge toll the war years had taken on Caroline Langston. She had withdrawn from public life, passing her days alone at the Langston estate and worrying about her younger son. And when the country went to war with Korea just five years after the last war had ended, it had been too much for Caroline's nerves. But when she held her newest grandchild for the first time, Caroline's usually calm and cool demeanor had melted away. It was the first time she had truly smiled in years. Frederick had thick brown hair and dark brown eyes, and he looked just like Ben.

* * *

     Her tea has gone cold and so too has the night air. Usually, chamomile tea would help her fall asleep, but tonight sleep seems determined to elude her. She makes her way back into the house to grab her coat, deciding that a late night drive just might do the trick. At the top of the stairs, instead of going to her room, she stops outside the door of Henry's old room. _It will most likely be Jacob's room soon_ , she thinks to herself. She opens the door and goes to sit at the foot of the bed like she had done so many times during the years when Henry had been away at college.

Henry had been the easier child to raise, always responsible and obedient and more eager to please. He had learned from an early age that the Langston Furniture Company would be his one day and had greeted the news with great enthusiasm. Unlike Warren, who seemed to view the responsibility of running the factory as a burden, not as a privilege. And while all of the good things Margaret had told Henry about the Langstons and the factory were true, they were also only half-truths. Sometimes, she worries that only exposing him to the positives has given Henry a black and white view of the world and that he has put the Langston name on a pedestal it doesn't fully deserve. She wanted Henry to be proud of his family and of the factory so that he would keep both of those things going. So that he could give some meaning to a decision his grandfather had made decades earlier, a decision neither Warren nor Henry knew anything about.

Raising Frederick had been another matter. He had been an absolutely delightful child in the beginning, a bright and active boy who showered her with affection, constantly throwing his little arms around her and pressing warm kisses to her cheek. And he used to laugh all the time. There was a time when tucking him in at night was the thing she most looked forward to. On her most difficult days, she would remind herself that if she just continued to push forward, she would get to sit beside her little boy at the end of the day and listen to his excited voice telling her about all the things he had done that day. She would stroke her son's hair as he slept and for just a few minutes, she would allow herself to indulge in the fantasy that Ben was sitting behind her on the bed, with his arms wrapped around her and his head resting on her shoulder, and that the sleeping boy they were both gazing at with such tenderness was their son. Every time she looked at Frederick, she would think of Ben and wish that her younger son had been conceived from love and passion and pleasure.  

But by the time Frederick was five years old, his physical resemblance to Ben was the only similarity that remained. Suddenly, he seemed determined to always believe the worst about her and greeted everything she said or did with suspicion. As she had predicted, her father-in-law showered Henry with attention while completely ignoring Frederick. Her younger son was never invited along for fishing trips in the Ozarks or Cardinals games in St. Louis with his father and grandfather. She knew Edward was unlikely to be swayed by anyone, but she wished Warren or Henry would speak up for Frederick. Initially, she had been able to use the age gap between her sons as an excuse, but she knew that wasn't the real reason why he was being left out. And as young as he was, Frederick seemed to know when she wasn't being completely honest. When she would suggest that the two of them go to the movies or the ice cream parlor together, Frederick would interpret her gesture as pity and wouldn't hide his resentment. Had he been anyone but her child, she would have admired his perceptiveness and outspokenness. But his moodiness often made Margaret feel like she was walking on eggshells, never knowing if she would be met by Dr. Jekyll or Mr. Hyde. There were times he was so similar to Warren in temperament, given to self-pity and idleness, that it infuriated her. Then there were times when he would open his mouth and say the most hateful things to her. And in those moments, all she could hear was Edward.

Being Warren's wife had always been a thankless role, and often so too was being the mother of his two sons. There were so many times when the boys seemed to prefer Warren’s indifference to her involvement. Whenever she punished Henry for breaking her favorite vase or gave Frederick a lecture about his schoolwork, they would respond with such coldness. It was as if they suddenly forgot about all the nights she had sat at their bedsides when they were sick. Or that she was the one who always made the arrangements so that they could go away to summer camp or sign up for Little League Baseball. She knew she was being unfair, but Henry's physical resemblance to both his father and his grandfather sometimes made it difficult for Margaret to look at him. With Frederick, his physical resemblance to Ben caused her to feel immense affection towards him while simultaneously being the very thing that made her keep him at arm's length.

She can only laugh when she thinks about how she too has adopted that unspoken Langston rule regarding terms of endearment and nicknames. Occasionally, she would call Frederick "Fred", but that was as far as she could go. She had noticed early on in their marriage how Warren would always refer to her by name. Even on the evenings when they hosted a dinner party or attended a social function, when they played the roles of Mr. and Mrs. Warren Langston flawlessly, Warren found ways of referring to her as anything but "my wife", as if such words were far too precious to ever be applied to her. There had been a time when Margaret had felt sympathy for Warren, but it had faded away every time he cast a dismissive glance in her direction or demanded a refill by shaking his empty glass at her in annoyance. She had given up so much, and after so many years of trying to meet Warren's expectations only to be met with indifference, her resentment towards him grew into hatred.

The day Warren died, Margaret felt like a wrongfully convicted prisoner who had been set free after serving twenty-eight years. She remembers that spring afternoon so vividly. She had been setting the dinner table, and Warren had been in the living room. The radio was broadcasting the evening news, and she could hear Warren pouring himself his first drink of the evening. She was just about to announce that dinner was ready when she heard the sound of a whiskey bottle shattering. She rushed to the living room to find Warren on the floor, clutching his chest. She hurried back to the kitchen to call for an ambulance, but her hand hesitated above the keypad. Warren was sixty-seven years old, overweight, and a heavy drinker. There was a good chance he would die no matter how quickly an ambulance arrived. The line had begun beeping, as the phone had been off the hook for an extended period of time. Snapping back to reality, she placed the emergency call and sat down at the kitchen table. As she stared at the freshly cut lilacs in the center of the table and waited for the ambulance to arrive, she was glad Henry and Lucille were at their apartment. It was also the first time she was actually glad that Frederick was running around somewhere with Barbara. She remembered what it was like to watch her own father pass away, and she was grateful that her sons would not have to go through that experience. Warren had died before the ambulance arrived.

The next year, when she held her newborn grandson for the first time, she was grateful that the little boy would never know his grandfather, would never have to know what it was to be deeply disappointed by him.

* * *

     It's just before midnight when she locks the front door behind her. She hears the creaking of the porch swing as a cool breeze blows past, and she thinks back to all the nights she had sat on the front porch, waiting up for Frederick and worried out of her mind. A frown darkens her face as it always does when she thinks about Barbara. From the beginning, Margaret had disliked Barbara's lack of manners and the way she would invite herself over to the Langston house at all hours of the day and night. Frederick and Barbara's relationship was tempestuous, and as the years went on, their relationship fell into a pattern that Margaret found unsettling. Every time Barbara came back into the picture, Frederick's mood would elevate to the point of mania. Inevitably, all that energy would need an outlet and it would be released in unacceptable ways. Margaret despised how irresponsible and disrespectful Frederick was whenever Barbara was around. He would be disruptive in class, play truant, skip baseball practice, and not show up for his shift at the factory. Barbara and her friends were more interested in partying and drinking and driving their cars recklessly around town. There were so many mornings where Margaret or Henry would have to go by the local diner and apologize for the way Frederick and his friends had behaved the night before. It especially embarrassed her how, after bothering the other patrons and the wait staff with their rudeness, they had the audacity to run off without paying. Whenever Margaret tried to talk to Frederick, he would respond with cold glares and rudely tell her to mind her own business. Barbara's parents were never of any help. After her first meeting with Barbara's parents, Margaret had gotten the feeling that the Ansells were greedy people who had no concern for their daughter's education or her reputation for being a wild girl. They seemed perfectly happy to look the other way, so long as a boy with the Langston name and fortune remained interested in their daughter.

Their breakups got worse and worse each time. Margaret would sometimes overhear the awful things they yelled at each other, and on a few occasions she had feared their verbal fights might escalate into physical ones. Though she loves her son, she was not proud of him in those moments. After a few days of sulking, Frederick would channel his energy back into the right areas: schoolwork, the high school baseball team, and helping out at the factory. But just as things were getting back on track, Barbara would show up at the house and Frederick would always take her back.

After four years of dating Barbara, Frederick's performance at school and on the baseball team had been too inconsistent to impress any college admissions boards or athletic departments. Frederick had let the opportunity to attend college, an opportunity she had been denied, slip away from him and she can't help blaming Barbara for that. Three years ago, the two of them had run off to a concert in Boston and gotten married. As displeased as she was to have Barbara for a daughter-in-law, Margaret was more saddened by the fact that her son had chosen not to include his family in such an important event. And she worried about what kind of marriage the two of them would have when their relationship had always followed an unhealthy pattern of co-dependence.

With Henry and Lucille, Margaret never had to worry. The two of them had met at the University of Missouri. Henry had graduated and come back to Arcadia, gotten himself an apartment, and was working at the factory while Lucille was still back in Columbia, finishing up her biology degree. The two years they spent living in different towns were good for their relationship. Unlike Frederick and Barbara, Henry and Lucille had met when they were older and had learned how to be independent. They learned how to be strong individually, so it came as no surprise that they were so strong together. Margaret appreciated that Lucille was smart, mature, modest, and courteous. She also knew that Lucille would make a good mother one day, and though they don't always see eye to eye, they are united in their unfailing love for Jacob. Henry adores Lucille, and he never hesitates in expressing his affection and gratitude. On the day of Henry's wedding, Margaret had felt immense pride in knowing that she had raised a son who would be a good husband and a good father. She is glad that both of her sons had chosen to marry for love, unlike Edward and Warren, who had used marriage as a means to an end. But if she's being completely honest, some part of her will always be envious of her daughters-in-law. Lucille and Barbara had gotten to experience young love and now marriage to husbands who loved them. It appears her daughters-in-law would not be met with the same fates as Caroline McCormick and Margaret Anderson; they would never know the crushing loneliness that had once accompanied marrying into the Langstons.

* * *

     She hadn't been planning to come here when she had decided to go for a late-night drive, but somehow it feels fitting that she should be sitting on the front porch of the old farmhouse tonight. The Anderson farm has stood empty since her dad died almost two decades ago. Warren hadn't hesitated in voicing his opinion to sell it off, making a derisive comment that it would be the first time the farm actually made money. But Margaret can't bring herself to let go of the place where she and her dad had been so happy for so many years. Their relationship had never been broken, but a distance had formed between them on Margaret’s wedding day. And though the distance never grew wider, it had remained all but unbridgeable until the day Jacob Anderson died.

It still brings tears to her eyes every time she recalls that day. The workday had just ended, and the factory was mostly empty. Margaret was in her office, finalizing the monthly projections report with one of the company's newest accountants, Richard Burke, when she suddenly got the feeling that something terrible was about to happen. She rushed to the windows of her office, which overlooked the factory floor. Her dad was swaying slightly, and then he suddenly grabbed his chest and collapsed on the floor. She yelled at Richard to call 911 as she ran out of the office, pushing her way through the handful of remaining workers who had gathered. One of the foremen, Jake Turner, quickly ushered everyone away. She held her dad's head in her lap, and they both looked at each other with tears in their eyes.

"I love you so much, and I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Meg. About everything. It was all my fault. I wish I'd been a better father to you," he said. His usually warm and steady voice was frantic and full of sorrow.

She had wanted to tell him that she didn't blame him, that she could not have asked for a better father, and that she loved him too. But in that moment she couldn’t form any words. Instead, she looked into his eyes, eyes so similar to her own, and in a broken voice she could only choke out one word: "Dad". She watched the relief wash over him, glad that he knew all the things that she felt but couldn't express. He gave her one last smile and gently wiped her eyes with his sleeve, and she marveled at how he was the one comforting her in that moment. "My perfect little pearl," he whispered, tucking a lock of her long hair behind her ear, as his eyelids began to flutter. She placed her hand over his heart and felt it slow until it came to a stop.

A single tear rolls down her cheek and she quickly wipes it away with her sleeve. As she goes to stand up, she winces as she feels a pain in her side—a pain that has become all too familiar to her in the past year. The pain is sharp, but she resists bringing her hand to her side, not wanting to feel the traces of the scar on her abdomen through the fabric of her shirt. She takes a few deep breaths as she walks to the edge of the porch, and the pain gradually subsides. She leans against the porch rail and fidgets with her locket as her eyes find the old barn in the darkness.

Even after all these years, seeing those two Returned men disappear when she was ten years old still haunts her. Edward Langston had called them demons, and she had believed there was something sinister about them, because she had seen what their presence had done to her dad, had seen how the light in his eyes faded a little more each time they returned. She can still hear the distraught cries of the man with the leg brace and the voice of the other man telling him that everything would be okay. She wonders if those men remembered all the times they had been hunted down and killed, and how awful it must have been to know that another painful execution awaited them. And yet the man with the leg brace had been crying because, as awful as life could be, he had still wanted to live. And the other man, who must have been just as scared and knowing that he was going to die again too, had comforted him. It confused her. How could those men be demons when they showed each other more humanity in that moment than the man who had ordered their deaths had ever shown in his entire life? She had never dared to ask the question aloud, knowing it would destroy her dad if he ever found out what she had witnessed that morning.

For years, she had wanted to expose the truth about the fire, but it would have been impossible to do so and to protect her dad at the same time. She never completely forgave Edward Langston, but she learned to let go of some of the resentment she felt towards him. The factory was not only the bloodline of Arcadia, it was also to be Henry's one day. To expose her father-in-law's villainy would have only satisfied her own spite and potentially do more harm than good. There were too many families that relied on the factory, just as the Andersons had, and she felt a responsibility to all of those families to keep the factory going and to train Henry to the best of her ability. Nothing could justify the deaths of those twelve workers, but she told herself that keeping the factory going was a way to make sense of what had happened, a way of honoring the lives that had been lost, including those of her and her dad. She may have hated the Langstons, but the factory was not to blame. It had been an instrument of good, and she poured her energy into making sure it continued to create opportunities and to lift families into the middle class. It had been at her insistence that the Langston Furniture Company pledged that its doors would always be open to veterans. She had been astute enough to know that the decision would prove popular with the people of Arcadia and ultimately be good for business. And it had given her a way to exact some degree of revenge on Edward and Warren by forcing them to honor Ben in some small way. 

As the years went on, she came to need the factory for her own reasons. If it's true that the two great salvations in life are love and work, she now knows just how intrinsically linked those two things are. It was the love she felt for her beloved dad and her blameless children that had quelled the rage she felt towards Edward Langston. Hard work became its own reward. Warren could have his unearned glory and reputation as a savvy businessman and philanthropist for all she cared. She was only interested in protecting her dad and safeguarding Henry's birthright. Whatever regrets she might have, protecting the people she loves would never be one of them.

* * *

Back at the house, she makes herself a fresh pot of tea and sits down at the kitchen table, which is practically overflowing with various stacks of paperwork. Almost everything has been signed, attested, and notarized. There are only two documents that still need her signature.

The first one she signs without hesitation, naming Jacob as the sole executor of her safety deposit box at Arcadia Bank & Trust once he reaches eighteen years of age. Following her doctor's appointment this morning, she had gone by the bank to add one last item to the box. All of the items held some sentimental value to Margaret: some of her favorite photographs, a few pieces of jewelry that had been belonged to Margaret's mother, which she hoped would one day belong to the girl Jacob loved, as well as the title and the beneficiary deed stating that the Andersons' farm would belong to Jacob when he reached the age of majority. And then there were all of the letters Ben had ever written to her. She had considered destroying the letters several times, but she didn't have the strength to let them or Ben go. One of the reasons she had decided to rent the safety deposit box was so that she could keep the letters safe, fearful that they might be discovered and destroyed by either Edward or Warren. And she had not wanted the letters to be discovered by her sons, because while they most likely knew their parents' marriage was no great love affair, she did not want to give her sons proof that she never loved their father or open herself up to their judgment for it.

The last item, which she placed in the vault just this afternoon, was a gold pocket watch that had belonged to her dad. She had removed it from his coat pocket the day he died, but she hadn't opened it until she was sitting alone by the river after his funeral. The tears had come rushing out when she remembered how she had felt the beating of his heart stop, and yet the watch continued to keep perfect time. She had played with his pocket watch so many times as a little girl, but it wasn't until the afternoon of his funeral that she had discovered that the back of the watch could also be opened. And inside was a picture of her from when she was about twelve years old, smiling in a white dress with her long hair loosely cascading over her left shoulder. It had made her think about Ben and about whether his gold pocket watch continued to keep perfect time, whether it still held the lock of hair she had given him all those years ago.

Her fingers drift to her locket, a gift from Jacob for her birthday this past summer. _The last birthday I'll ever get to celebrate. The last gift I'll ever receive from Jacob_ , she thinks to herself. She opens the locket, blinking back tears of both joy and sadness as she looks at the little photograph of her grandson housed inside.

Jacob had been perfect from the beginning. For years, she had worried that her heart had become something malformed. It was as if every disappointment, every hurt done to her had pierced the warmest, most tender parts of her heart. And she had had to scramble to stop the bleeding by replacing that part with a piece that was made from the wrong material and never quite fit. But the first time she held her grandson, a little boy who shared the same name as her dad, it had felt as if something that had been broken for so long began to heal. She had fallen in love with her grandson immediately, and the fact that he loved her in return, that the two of them were thick as thieves, had been one of the few miracles she had been afforded. With his messy brown hair and warm brown eyes, he reminds her so much of another boy she had adored—a boy who had also been so playful and thoughtful at the same time.

Only one last piece of paperwork remains unsigned, and her hand hesitates over the signature line. She knows that Henry would never agree with her decision, and there is a part of her that does not want to sign the DNR form. Nothing about the situation seems fair. Edward Langston had been a cruel and greedy man, and he had lived into his eighties. Warren had been a lazy drunk, and he had lived to the age of sixty-seven. But she would not live to see her fifty-fifth birthday or see Jacob's eighth birthday in January.

She had thought the changes to her body had simply been due to turning fifty. She had thought that she only felt the fatigue because she had finally slowed down enough to realize how tired she was. Just when she had felt confident that, between Henry, Jake Turner, and Richard Burke, the factory was in good hands and she could enjoy a well-deserved retirement of gardening and playing with her grandson, she had felt a sharp and sudden pain in her side. 

Earlier this year, her doctor had confirmed her suspicions: advanced metastatic ovarian cancer. She had been diagnosed in Stage III; the cancer cells were already in her retroperitoneal lymph nodes, meaning it was likely that the cancer had already spread to other nearby organs. Henry had immediately insisted the doctors do everything they could, and Margaret loved him for it. But she knows the odds were never in her favor. Even with everything the doctors could offer, the chances that she would survive beyond five years was only 1 in 3. And she did not want to spend the remaining time she had in a hospital bed, feeling worse from the cancer treatment than she had felt from the actual cancer. And she did not want money that could have been going towards Jacob's college fund to be spent on treating something for which a real cure was simply not available. So she had opted for surgery, followed by one cycle of low-dose chemotherapy. The four-hour surgery had left her with a large scar down her abdomen, and she had felt hollowed out, both physically and metaphorically. But recovering from the surgery was nothing compared to the constant nausea, the soreness in her throat, and the fatigue from just one cycle of chemotherapy. And while she does not consider herself to be particularly vain, she had been relieved that she had not lost her hair. She did not want for Jacob's lasting memory of her to be of a frail, bald woman wasting away in a hospital bed.

The fatigue never truly went away, but it wasn't until the familiar sharp pain suddenly returned a few days ago that she knew the cancer had recurred. The remission period had not lasted even six months, and this morning her doctor confirmed that the cancer had metastasized into her liver. She is now in Stage IV, and there is no Stage V.

 _It's a strange thing to know exactly what it is that you will die from_ , she thinks to herself as she signs the document. There was something strangely comforting and also utterly disconcerting about it. It terrifies her to think about what may be awaiting her on the other side, and there is so much that she wishes had gone differently: that she had been brave enough to tell Ben how she felt about him, that her relationship with Frederick had been better, that she had gotten to travel, that the cancer had been detected sooner, that she could have decades with Jacob and any other grandchildren who might come along.

She looks at the stacks of paper on the kitchen table and lets out a deep sigh. In a few days, she will be back at the hospital for additional debulking surgery. She has done everything she can to make sure that her loved ones will be taken care of. All she can do now is hope for the best.

* * *

     She remembers being wheeled into surgery and how the bright lights of the operating room had slowly dimmed as she counted backwards from one hundred for the anesthesiologist. Everything after that comes to her in incoherent fragments, and she does not know whether the surgery was hours or days ago.

But she can tell that something went wrong.

She cannot open her eyes, and the bedsheet feels like it’s made of lead. Occasionally, she’ll feel pain but she cannot locate where it’s coming from, as if there is a disconnect between her mind and her body. There are two rhythmic sounds that seem to persist behind all the other sounds. One is higher in pitch and occurs more frequently; the second sound is more muffled and slower. She knows she's heard both of these sounds before, but she cannot quite put her finger on what they are until her doctor's voice makes its way through the haze. She makes out certain terms: unexpected complications, extensive necrosis of the liver, systemic organ failure. It is then that she realizes the two persistent sounds are those of the cardiac monitor and the ventilator. She is in a coma and hooked up to machines that are keeping her alive.

Sometimes she hears Henry's voice telling her that everything is going well at the factory and that everyone is keeping her in their thoughts and prayers. Other times, she is aware of Lucille's voice and the rustling of the newspaper as Lucille reads to her. And then there are the times when Jacob's lovely voice is telling her about how much he is enjoying school, and when he describes the latest drawing he has made for her, she summons all her strength and tries to force her eyes open. But however hard she listens for it, she never hears Frederick's voice, and that breaks her heart like nothing else she has ever experienced before.

So many times during her life, she had conjured up the voice of the Returned man saying, "It's okay. Just let go." She feels a deep breath fill her chest. She wills away the fear and the pain, and it's as if she can visualize the blankness her mind is slipping into in the blinding white light that begins to trickle into her field of view.

She has no idea how much time passes, but the beeping of the cardiac monitor slows and the sound of the ventilator goes silent. The weight of the blanket covering her body dissolves into nothingness. She is finally able to open her eyes again, and suddenly there is only blue sky and fluffy white clouds above her as she floats on her back near the dock on the lake. The brief scent of burning wood is replaced by the sultry scent of gardenias in the height of summer, and it settles the way a beautiful memory does, into every last molecule of her being. She feels herself let go.

And then she wakes up.


End file.
